The Artist and His Masterpiece
by The Nebbiolo Prince
Summary: His lover's body was his palette as well as his canvas.


**I've had this written forever, and figured I'd upload it to show anyone who, like, stalks me or whatever that I'm not dead. I will add a few vignettes to Paralian Life soon - I have four stories rough drafted out, two that I actually have typed. So, er, here's the raciest thing I ever wrote to tie you people over. I really like the idea of Sweden painting in his spare time, so that's kind of a recurring thing in my fanwork.**

* * *

><p>It was a small secret that Sweden liked to paint, and no one knew about it because all of his paintings were destroyed after their birth. His canvas was Finland's body, every naked inch of it, and the only remnants of his creations would be the streaks of paint across his faded shirt or worn jeans, which would be quickly discarded in favor of actually feeling Finland's sticky skin against his own, bare, and every color of the spectrum. The nights when he found Finland spread-eagle in their bed cradling jars of paint and brushes to his chest were always the kind of nights that held magic in them, the kind of magic that helped Sweden to remember every moan and quiver, every gasp and arching of the back. Sweden could get hard just thinking about the heat in his lover's eyes, thinking about the way the paint slid over the round edges of his pliant body. How red and orange made thin rivers over Finland's pale skin and stained the cheap white sheets they had in case of this occasion.<p>

Sweden would paint patches of meadow with small flowers hidden in the grass, rivers that ran up the length of Finland's back, fading rainbows that wrapped around his stomach. Every stroke made Finland gasp and twitch and tilt his head ever-so-slightly so his right earlobe would rub against his right shoulder as Sweden licked small trails on his neck and nipped possessively.

His rough palms would caress Finland's hips, pinching at the soft "love handles" that sat atop them, mounds of skin Finland hated. Sweden's worship of his body, however, made him love them, especially when the imposing man would dance the soft bristles of his brush across their surface. He would lay Finland on his back and coax him with little effort to open his legs wide, and he would paint little symbols of their old religion on his thighs while leaning in close to his lover's heated epicenter but not paying it any mind, making Finland whine and twist his wrists and feet in frustration. After painting a long stripe from the top of his thigh to his ankle on each leg, Sweden would pull back and look on, amused, as he watched Finland arch his back in a strange attempt to find sexual gratification as though a magnetic force pulled his hips upward in a promise of touch. Sweden would just smear more paint onto the makeshift palette he'd made of Finland's chest, the coolness of the new paint on his flushed, heated skin making him gasp sharply.

Sweden would press the heel of his palm to the cold globs of paint, pressing his hand down so it was coated thickly in red, yellow, and green. With one hand on the small of Finland's back and the other devious, he would reach under his lover and grip one of his fine cheeks with the devious, wet hand. It was a sign, a sign he was losing focus and getting drawn into the allure of Finland's aroused self, a sign he was done with mischief and eroticism and ready for sweat to wash his feeble creations from his darling's skin. A sign he was ready to run his mouth over the places his brush had skated upon. He would drag his knuckles up Finland's back, whispering filthy Swedish words into his ear, lips brushing the shell and tongue lapping at the almost-ticklish skin behind it. Finland would answer his shameless, dirty questions with shameless, dirty answers in heated, barely-there breaths. Yes, I want you to fuck me. How hard? So hard I can barely stand tomorrow, so hard I ache and God, yes, I want you to stretch me so wide I feel it for days and days. I want your mouth in places it shouldn't be but belongs. Sweden would offer his cleanest hand to Finland, who would hold it carefully and take a finger in his mouth, coating it before wrapping his lips around another, dazed eyes keeping hot contact with Sweden's the entire time. He'd wrap an arm around Sweden's strong shoulders, newly bare, as the man would reach between them and fumble his fingers blindly over the Finn's skin, searching out his entrance. And as he slipped his fingers in, he'd whisper bad things in Finland's ear, offering a rare smirk as his lover punctuated every reply with a soft grunt or gasp. Please, please, fuck me so good, I need it so bad tonight. Hngh, I'm a slut, you're right, but only for you. I need this, oh, I need you, I need you closer and inside me and all those things. I need you, Berwald, so bad, so bad.

And there, the surge, the gasp, and two would become one, united on two different planes, the spiritual and the physical. Sweden would move swiftly, pounding his lover the way he'd been begging for, lavishing his face with kisses. Finland would bend like the bow he once strung for battle, head lolling from side to side as Sweden kissed his neck and jaw and sticky cheeks, kissing the corner of his mouth where a small stream of drool would leak. And when both would think they couldn't take another moment, the painter would claim his lover's lips in an open-mouthed kiss, finishing his masterpiece as they both came unraveled like the balls of yarn from the basket in the living room that the dog liked to roll around the house.

They would come down from the high, the pressures in the pits of their stomachs relieved and their lust sated, and they would have short, hot conversation - how good it was, how deep, how amazing each of them were and always - always - the I love yous and you're beautifuls, and I'm so lucky to have yous and the you're so goods.

The artist would watch the masterpiece as he was lulled to sleep by the small sounds from their window, eyes raking his spent body and kissing his forehead. He would reach once more for his brush, and on his temple he would paint the sweetest nothings he could think of, and the truest words to ever be said.


End file.
